


Dross

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bittersweet, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Drinking, Existential Angst, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, Platonic Cuddling, Wreckers, drunk cuddling, post-war angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Impactor hasn't seen Whirl since the trial that sent him to G-9. He finds him drunk at the only bar left on Cybertron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galena/gifts).



> Galena asked for Impactor and Whirl cuddling. I did my best to provide, but accidentally made it sad.
> 
> This is set three days after the end of Dark Cybertron.

Whirl was as drunk as Impactor had ever seen him.

Impactor hadn’t been looking for him. Cybertron was just so far gone that there were hardly any bars left on the entire fragging planet. Impactor was left with a choice of drinking alone (not in the mood, and he knew just how _that_ would end,) or finding some bar.

Normally he’d have a drink with Roadbuster, but Impactor had well and truly pissed _him_ off a couple hours ago. Guzzle had taken Roadbuster’s side. Things had gotten a bit _ugly_. Half the reason Impactor was even looking for a drink right now.

The only bars left on this Primus-forsaken rock were “Swerve’s” on the Lost Light, and Maccadam’s. Impactor had been avoiding Maccadam’s for centuries now -- too many memories of off-shifts spent drinking above ground in pleasant company, and one memory of the afternoon when it had all turned to slag -- but given the options available…

The place was packed. Enough people were still celebrating that Impactor had to push through a crowd just to get to the bar. Impactor had missed the action -- they’d been off-world hunting down rogue ‘cons when they got the distress message, and returned to Cybertron just in time for the victory party’s ugly hangover.

Whirl was drinking through his, apparently. He lay slumped over the bar, not quite passed out, engine making some pretty unpleasant noises. Some of that was damage, but some of it was engex -- Whirl’s engine was a precise instrument. Impactor had no idea how Whirl managed to keep it running despite the things he insisted on shoving into his intake.

Whirl had spilled a drink on himself at some point and hadn’t bothered to clean it up; it had dried there, a sticky fuscia film. His head rested in a puddle. Blurr had been wiping the rest of the bar clean around him as best he could. Someone had written “WRECK & FAIL” in big letters down one of his rotor blades.

The only empty seats at the entire bar were the two on either side of Whirl.

Impactor sighed and sat down. He held a hand up to Blurr, pointed at the unfiltered high-grade engex, then held up one finger. Blurr nodded and poured his drink.

Whirl was staring at the lights behind the bar, his optic filmy and unfocused. He’d gotten a rebuild since Impactor had last seen him. Lighter. Faster in the air, maybe, but he sure didn’t look like a Wrecker any more. His electromagnetic interference still felt familiar, even after the rebuild and all those years apart.

Blurr put Impactor’s drink down on the bar. Whirl twitched, antenna flicking. Impactor picked up his drink and took a swallow. It tasted too damn familiar. Blurr noticed his expression and smiled.

“I managed to dig up the old recipe from back before they closed,” he said. “Still taste the same?”

“Pretty damn close,” Impactor said. He couldn’t smile back. If he’d known it was the same blend, he would’ve ordered something else. He was not in a nostalgic mood.

Whirl’s antenna flicked again. He struggled to sit up, then settled for simply shifting his weight on the bar so it rested on his other shoulder. He turned his head, still in the puddle. His optic whirred, trying to focus.

“Impactor?” His vocoder glitched, buzzing distortion. “‘zzat you?”

Impactor wasn’t sure just how this would go.

The last time he’d seen Whirl had been during the trial. Whirl hadn’t been part of the G-9 mission, and Impactor had been busy on Cybertron for months afterwards, dealing with red tape and paperwork to get his freedom arranged -- a thank-you from High Command for helping sort out G-9, and maybe an apology for having left him there in the first place.

Impactor had missed the action. Roadbuster told him about it later, how Whirl had tried to put Springer out of his misery -- a genuine slagging hero in Impactor’s opinion -- and how Roadbuster had slapped him with the veto in retaliation. How Whirl had _lost it_ , gone on a rampage, and Ultra Magnus had barely taken him in alive.

Roadbuster hadn’t seen Whirl since. Probably for the best. And by the time Impactor had his life together and his freedom properly sorted out by High Command, Whirl had vanished. Taken along on Rodimus’ wild cyberfox chase across the galaxy.

Fine by Impactor. He hadn’t been ready to face him back then anyway. He guessed Whirl probably felt the same.

They'd had some time since then. Both of them. Maybe...

“Yeah,” Impactor said. “It’s me, Whirl. How ya been?”

Whirl giggled, high-pitched and distorted. “Been great,” he said, still without lifting his head. “Doing some travelling. Making new friends. Having exciting adventures. Really _discovering_ myself.” His giggling continued, then was swallowed by static. “And you.” Whirl tried to pat him on the arm and missed. “How’s my favorite war criminal?”

Impactor grinned into his drink. “Well, I ain’t dead yet,” he said. “Guess that counts for something.”

Whirl’s optic curved into a drunken smile. “How was G-9?”

Impactor shrugged. “Relaxing. I had a lot of time to think.”

Whirl giggled, optic going wavy. “You missed the party. Combiners, Titans, Shockwave, aliens, end of the fraggin’ universe...” Whirl tried to gesture with his claws and almost knocked over Impactor’s drink. “It was epic. Confusing, but epic. Killed a lot of fraggin’ Ammo… Amno… Amma... ”  He gave up. “Lots of aliens. You woulda loved it.” His optic curved into a grin. “Least you didn’t miss the afterparty.”

Impactor waved Blurr over again. He pointed to the tank of plain, filtered energon and held up one finger, then pointed down at Whirl. Blurr poured him the drink and placed it on the table.

“And a straw,” Impactor said.

Blurr dropped one into the glass. Whirl’s optic spiraled as he tried to focus.

“Sit up, Whirl.”

Whirl actually tried. He couldn’t. Impactor heaved an arm under Whirl’s shoulder, then dragged him up. Whirl’s head sank. Impactor propped Whirl’s chin on his shoulder cannon, then picked up the glass of energon. Blurr wiped up the puddle of spilled engex while Whirl was no longer laying in it.

“Got you a drink,” Impactor said.

Whirl’s optic curved into an eager grin. He laughed. “ _Really?_ You trying to kill me?!” But he still opened his fuel intake, on the underside of his head right where it met his throat.

Impactor inserted the straw and waited until Whirl spiraled his intake closed around it and drank. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t booze.

“Betrayer,” Whirl said. “This isn’t a _drink_. This is just fuel. I _trusted_ you.” But he finished it anyway, and sucked noisily through the empty straw until Impactor yanked it out of his intake.

Impactor shrugged Whirl back onto the bar. His shoulder and his cannon were both uncomfortably sticky now. He grimaced, finished the rest of his drink in one go -- unpleasantly familiar flavor, with the dying sunlight filtering in through the same damn windows just the way it always had -- and waved at Blurr.

“Give me something stronger,” Impactor said. “One of _your_ blends. None of this old nostalgic slag.”

Blurr took the empty glasses and came back with a cube of something dark and bubbling. Impactor downed it in one go -- too refined for his taste, but whatever. He could feel the kick already, and that was kind of the point here.

“Keep filling it up again until I tell you to stop,” Impactor said.

Blurr leaned in closer and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the din of the bar, one hand over his mouth. “You taking him with you when you go?”

Impactor frowned, impassive.

Blurr must have been desperate, because kept trying. “He’s been here for three days. He’s starting to _smell_.”

Impactor pushed his empty cup forward, just a touch. “I’ll think about it.”

Blurr rolled his optics and poured him another drink.

 

An hour later, Impactor was well on his way to being satisfyingly drunk. Whirl was still completely wasted. He lay on the bar, rotors twitching, singing an old Wreckers fight song that Impactor hadn’t heard in decades.

That ugly nostalgia again. Impactor didn’t want to think about the past. The future was baffling, a peacetime wasteland with no clear path at all, but the past was even worse. Right now, he could do without either.

Impactor finished his drink and waved for Blurr. “Settle me up.”

“On the house,” Blurr said immediately. “If you take _him_ with you.”

“Deal.” Impactor slid out of his chair and heaved Whirl over one shoulder. Whirl’s head and arms hung down limp at Impactor’s back. He kicked his feet weakly. He was lighter than he used to be, missing more armor than Impactor had realized just looking at him.

“ _Joke’s on you~_ ” Whirl sang. “ _He was going to bring me with him_ **_anyway_ ** _~_ ”

“No I wasn’t.” Impactor adjusted Whirl’s weight on his shoulder, hoped to Primus that Whirl could keep his fuel in his tanks, and left the bar.

The sun was down. The street was quiet and cold. Impactor stood there for a moment, getting his bearings and adjusting to the quiet and the dark.

“You got a room on the Lost Light?” Impactor asked.

Whirl groaned loudly. “Don’t wanna go back.”

Impactor didn’t much feel like dragging Whirl all the way back to the Lost Light either. He was too drunk. He just wanted to sleep.

“Coming home with me then,” Impactor said, heaving Whirl up higher on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

 

Whirl passed out on the way. He woke up as they stepped inside Debris. Impactor felt him tense and hoped to Primus that Whirl wasn’t about to purge his tank.

“You said home,” Whirl said. “I didn’t know you meant _home_.”

“Yeah you did.” Impactor shifted his hold on him.

Whirl struggled, weakly. “I don’t want--”

“Relax. I’m not in the mood to see them either.”

Whirl went lax in his grip. Impactor turned a corner to the washroom and kicked a door open. He dropped Whirl on a bench.

“Just sit there and let me get this over with.”

Whirl looked up at him, a sickly smile curving his optic. “Yeah? Reminds me of when we first met. You remember?”

Impactor wasn’t in the mood. He scowled. It did nothing to shut Whirl up. No surprise there.

“You stood there jus’ like that,” Whirl said, smiling, wistful and sad. “Right in the doorway. Then you beat the living spark outta me.” He synthesized a sigh. “Beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Impactor grabbed the showerhead and turned the water on. Whirl’s vocoder gave a startled bleep. Impactor pointed the showerhead at the worst of the grime, too drunk and tired to do more than that. He let the water pressure do most of the work. Whirl fell silent; the pressure of the shower sent him into something like a trance. His optic went unfocused and dim. His engine stuttered and purred.

When Whirl was clean enough, Impactor pointed the showerhead at himself. He washed the grime off his shoulders and hand. That done, he rubbed himself dry with a towel, then dried Whirl too. He knew how to do it so Whirl wouldn’t struggle; quick, hard, steady motions, one limb at a time. Avoid his head. Don’t bother trying to dry his claws.

Impactor dragged Whirl to his feet. Whirl staggered and almost fell. He sure liked to drink, but engex really messed him up. Good thing he'd never been much for the harder stuff.

Impactor sighed and heaved him back over one shoulder. Whirl stayed quiet and limp, still tranced-out from the shower. Good. Maybe he’d actually fall asleep.

Impactor punched in the code for his door with the tip of his harpoon, went inside without bothering to switch on the lights, and dumped Whirl onto his berth. Whirl squinted up at him, optic bleary; Impactor wasn’t exactly sure how much his vision had been affected by the empurata but he knew Whirl had trouble seeing in low light.

He tried to walk away but Whirl’s claw grabbed him and clung, tight enough to dent.

Impactor froze. He looked down at Whirl’s claw grasping his arm. Whirl looked down at it too. His optic clicked, focusing in the near-dark. He seemed to realize abruptly what he’d done. He let go.

“Ah frag frag _frag_ , I shouldn’t--” Whirl’s vocoder cut out. “Yeah. Don’t know why you even bothered to bring me back. Thought you’d dump me in a ditch soon as you left the bar. ‘s what you should’ve done. I’m not a--” static briefly swallowed his voice entirely “-- I’m not a _Wrecker_ an’ I--”

“Shut up, Whirl.”

“I told ‘em you did it. Got you thrown in _prison_. Shoulda dumped me in a _ditch_ , shoulda--”

Impactor shoved him. “I said _shut up_.”

By some kind of miracle, it worked. Whirl’s optic flickered in the dark, still fixed on his empty claw.

“Move over.”

Whirl didn’t move. Impactor gave him another shove.

“ _Move._ ”

Whirl struggled to do so. He was drunk enough that even that was a challenge, but he managed. Impactor pushed his way into the berth beside him.

Whirl went very still, body tense and taut. Just like always. After a moment, just like always, he went limp.

Impactor threw an arm around him. Not easily -- contact with Whirl was always awkward, with that cockpit, those trailing rotors and long awkward limbs, and all the places that he didn’t like being touched. But Impactor had done this before, many times. Years ago. Back when the Wreckers had been close, and Impactor’s life had been… not good, exactly. But at least it had made some kind of _sense_. He’d had a home. A purpose. A crew, and a war to fight.

Now he had nothing. Wreckage and ruin. No clear path forward, and no way back. He would never be who he used to be, before Pova, before Garrus 9. But he didn’t know how to be anything else.

Whirl tensed at the increased contact, then relaxed. He struggled under the weight of Impactor’s arm. Turning to one side, back towards Impactor, shifting their bodies closer together, or trying to. He was running very warm, a result of his systems trying to process too many impurities and too much engex. It was uncomfortable. Impactor didn’t care.

“You should hate me,” Whirl said. “If I was you I’d hate me.”

“Maybe I do.” Impactor shifted his arm up and laid it clumsily across the side of Whirl’s cockpit. He pushed his face against the back of Whirl’s neck and found no armor there at all. Stupid. A good way to get killed, post-war or not.

Whirl tensed again. Impactor tightened his grip, pulling him closer. It didn’t work so well. Impactor’s chest dug into Whirl’s back, and Whirl’s rotor blades were in the way.

Whirl relaxed. He was struggling to stay conscious, slipping in and out of standby with little jerks of his legs.

“Liar,” Whirl said, volume set very low. “You don’t hate me. You don’t even hate _Springer_.” He slipped into standby again, then struggled out of it. “Pisses me off.”

“Yeah? Too slagging bad.” Impactor rolled over on his back and dragged Whirl on top of him. Whirl’s face rested on his chassis, his cockpit pressed half-sideways against his abdomen.

Whirl tried to speak. Nothing coherent came out. His claws grasped at Impactor’s shoulders and slipped off again. His optic curved into a smile. He nuzzled his face against Impactor’s hood, sensor prongs dragging across his grill. Impactor ran drunk and clumsy fingertips over the rotor mechanisms at Whirl’s back. He looked at the far wall, barely visible in the dark.

Maybe some mechs could pretend, in moments like this. Could let themselves imagine that things were how they used to be. That the war was still on, that the Wreckers were still a crew, that Impactor’s life still had meaning, structure, and purpose. That he still knew who he was and what he was for.

Impactor couldn’t. He’d never been good at that.

“Missed this,” Whirl said, voice thick with distortion.

Impactor had missed this too. The closeness. The sense of clarity. He missed the war. Sometimes he even missed his dark little cell on Garrus 9. At least back then he’d still known what he was.

What was he now?

What were either of them, but drifting wreckage in the wake of the war? A war that neither of them had expected to see the end of?

Whirl’s vocoder buzzed against Impactor's chassis. “You must be… so _happy_.” Whirl pushed his head against him. “You've got _everything._ You an’ Roadbuster an’ the little guy…”

Impactor chuckled. “Guzzle got another rebuild. He ain't so little any more.”

“ _Everything_ ,” Whirl repeated, as if he hadn't heard. “So slaggin’ _lucky_ … I’d give my right hand for what you’ve got. If I still had one.”

Impactor’s hand moved absently on Whirl’s back, fingers tracing drunken patterns on his chassis. Whirl had a point. Bad as things were, lost as he was, at least Impactor wasn’t alone. He still had Roadbuster and Guzzle. He even, kind of, still had Springer. And tonight he had Whirl too, close and comfortable, demanding nothing, his rebuilt frame too unfamiliar to feel nostalgic, his engine a dull whine.

He wasn’t the only discarded, damaged thing left adrift in the wake of this war. And he wasn't alone. Somehow, that made him feel better.

Whirl slipped into unconsciousness again. Full recharge, this time, not standby. Finally. His arms fell limp, one claw grasping at Impactor’s forearm as he slept. His engine struggled and stuttered for a very long time until finally evening out.

Impactor left his arm around Whirl’s back. He stared at the wall for a long time, smiling into the dark, before letting sleep take him.


End file.
